Fixed
by HappierThanMost
Summary: Soda lands in the ER tonight, but he doesn't really mind.


_We'll be moving forward in time with this one little moment..._

 **FIXED**

This place still gives me the heebie jeebies, with its antiseptic smell and all the beeping, but tonight I'm grateful it's not that busy. I change positions, my plastic chair squeaking its complaint, and try to fill out this clipboard of forms. But it sure ain't easy to write much more than just 'Sodapop Curtis', when my dripping blood is smearing the ink. I work hard at ignoring the guttural moans from some pitiful woman on the gurney in the corner, apparently forgotten and left out in the open for all to see. After several minutes of overhearing a whole bunch of weird medical lingo, I'm finding out she's in something called triage, which to me seems a lot like Purgatory. I continue to press my now reddened towel against my forehead and right temple and silently curse myself for being such a damn klutz.

Just when I'm beginning to wonder if Nurse Ratched at the admissions desk actually did page him, cause I sure didn't hear no intercom, I make out the familiar voice coming down the hall. "Yeah man, I stayed up and watched it till the bitter end. We suck so bad this season. Jesus is this even coffee?" Yep, that's him. He remains out of view continuing to shoot the shit with a coworker, so I can tell he doesn't know I'm here.

Finally the prickly nurse decides to get off her ass and walk down the hallway towards him. "Dr. Curtis, there's a patient out here who refuses to be worked on by anybody but you," she says with a tone like I'm the dumbest guy on the planet, and maybe I am for tumbling down the cellar stairs like I did. "Oh, and I made the coffee," she adds in a huff.

Now I hear footsteps and Pony backtracking on his harsh statement, trying to sound positive. "Thanks Ruth, and hey, I was just kidding about the coffee. It's really.. good." He appears from around the corner and spots me, tosses the mostly full styrofoam cup in the trash without a second thought and saunters over, smiling. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," he says with his hands pocketed, sounding dead-on Dad.

He doesn't look a thing like a doctor. I've never once seen him in a white coat, but nobody down in the ER seems to wear one. The hooded sweatshirt he wears half zipped over his scrubs makes him look like the eternal student, but the stethoscope slung around his neck and the official name badge prove that he belongs here.

"Soda, what the hell, let me take a look," and he gently peels back the sticky towel and gives my wound a once over. "Man, you really did a number on yourself, didn't ya?"

"Just trying to match my other eye," I joke about the opposite brow, scarred from the war.

"Well c'mon, let's go close it," my little brother directs me to an empty station, and I try not to look at the handful of people getting worked on as we pass through, to give them at least a fraction of privacy. I notice the woman on the gurney has been claimed at last, and I'm grateful when Pony easily slides our curtains closed.

I guess he sees so much trauma, Ponyboy must consider mine a tiny scratch, cause he looks really glad to see me tonight, like I've just popped in for a surprise visit and don't have this trail of blood trickling down my face. "So, what's up Sodapop?" he asks me enthusiastically and gives a quick pat to my leg as I'm trying to lie back and get comfortable, noticing my splattered shirt is a goner.

While he's busy going through drawers of all kinds of strange medical tools, I answer, "Oh you know, just kinda bleedin' out, waitin' for you to get out of the break room ." I smile at him when he turns to face me from the cabinets, and it's surreal to see him in this environment, so capable, in control and yet so relaxed. Aside from witnessing him perform the occasional family emergency like driving over right away to tweeze out a foreign object from deep inside a kid's nose, I've never really had the opportunity to see him at work. But he's still the same ole Pony as he pops a piece of gum in his mouth and heads for the sink to wash up.

"You tryin' to quit smokin' again?" I ask, wondering about the gum and remembering his multiple failed attempts.

He nods his head. "Somethin' like that." His sleeves are pushed up and he wrangles his hands into gloves, snapping them into place, and I ask for a piece of his gum but he won't let me have it. Setting up his tray with everything he needs, he explains, "Sorry, can't have you chewing while I sew. It'll make your temporal muscle move too much." He's tracing his finger from his upper jaw to his temple to point it out and sits down heavily in a rolling chair, kicks the lever to boost up, then moves up beside me, and grinning with his mouth but mostly his eyes he says, "Hey, when we're all done here, I can probably find you a sucker." He flips on the movable light and positions it right above us.

He inspects the cut some more, cleaning away the blood, I watch his green eyes darting around the entire area above my own, and he's still searching when after awhile he starts up the small talk, his good bedside manner coming into play. "So you're flying solo tonight? Where's your crew?" I can imagine being his patient for real and how calming it must feel to be in his care.

"Patty took the twins to visit her aunt up in Wichita and I just now dropped off Grip at Darry's," I explain and his mouth draws into a smile at the mention of my oldest son, but I go on. "I was hopin' Darry could give me a lift here but Lizzie..sorry it's _just Liz_ now right?... _Liz_ wasn't there so he was home alone with the girls tonight."

Pony shakes his head and breathes, "Poor bastard," and we both chuckle. We think it's hilarious our older brother ended up with four very vocal, very sassy daughters.

He starts getting the shot ready, of lidocaine he calls it, and when he's drawing the medicine into the syringe I ask, "How in the world did the boy who's afraid of needles become a doctor?"

"Oh I'm still afraid, but I don't mind pokin' the shit out of other people with 'em," he says with a wink. He's changing out his thicker needle for the finer one and pulling its cap with gloved but agile fingers. He comes at me now, all of this executed in a fluid and almost graceful motion. The palm and fingers of his one hand keep my head still and safe and I tense up but he keeps talking. "So what all was Darry…here comes a little sting…bitchin' about tonight?" I hiss but it's quick. And he continues to add more injections in different places all around the cut, careful to keep inserting the needle where it's already numb, spreading around this nectar of relief. "I reckon he was up in arms over your accident?"

"Right now he happens to be pissed at you," I tell him, then I figure I'm not in the best position to be in if this gets under his skin. But as he works on me, I can tell nothing in the world could shake those steady hands. He prepares his tweezer and suture thread with intense focus and I'm almost hypnotized watching him. "He drove by the house and saw you have a shutter hangin'."

"What? That just happened," he defends himself.

Pony's house is now our old one. Darry and I agreed to let Pony live there since it's paid off and we moved out to grow our own families, and although he's a doctor he's practically penniless right now; it'll take years to pay off his student loans. So he lives in the place where we were raised, and one day when he and Caroline are able to move on, Darry says we'll sell it and split the profit three ways. But it'll be interesting to see how he'll ever have the heart. Ain't worth much anyway but precious history. Pony's raised eyebrow and smirk let me know he's ready for the rest and I play messenger. "Says you've left it hangin' for a couple of days now and it's a _disgrace_ you're lettin' the house fall apart like that."

Years ago it would've bothered Pony to no end, but now he just shrugs it off and asks, "Doesn't he have enough to deal with at his house?" And those two are still at it, all these years later and not even in the same room, and I wonder what they say about me when they're together. Cause I know Darry and I sure talk about Pony when he's not around. "Aren't his parental hands full without having to breathe down my neck?" Pony questions and he has a point, but Darry will parent him as long as he has breath in his body. And as much as Pony complains, I know he's grateful for that.

"Oh, you shoulda seen it tonight," I add describing the scene. "We walked into World War Three goin' down between Gigi and him. I felt bad leavin' Grip in the crossfire." Not that he ain't used to fights at kitchen tables. But as much as Darry's house has estrogen, we're knee deep in testosterone, thank God. With how I grew up and now with Grip, Hunt and Rex, I don't have a clue on raisin' daughters. And honestly, Darry might be just as lost. "I mean, I love Gigi, Molly and Emmy...wait, who'd I forget?"

Pony's weaving the sutures in and out, under and over my skin and I feel zero pain but all the little tugs, the odd sensation of being drawn up against my will. "Daisy," he remembers.

"Right right, how could I forget the baby? Anyway, they're our nieces, I love 'em all, of course, but they're spitfires. Gonna give him all kinds of trouble down the road and it's his own damn fault, runnin' that ship way too tight, too heavy-handed. It's no wonder Gigi's already fightin' against him."

"Gigi actually scares me," Pony says in all seriousness and I can't help but laugh, which makes him command me to lie still, his hand pressing more firmly against my forehead. "You'd think he'd chill out over time but no. I think he's worse. Maybe cause they're girls?"

I'm reminded that soon, he's gonna be a member of the Parenthood Club. "Wonder what you'll have Ponyboy. How's Caroline anyway?" I ask, feeling bad it's taken me this long to bring it up.

"Good. Uncomfortable. Could be any day now. Her cervix is already dilating. " I sure don't need to know the medical details, but I'm truly excited for my little brother to be a dad, even if it blows my mind. How is that even possible? I wish my parents could see. And while I know this will be the best thing to ever happen to him, I also know what else is in store. It took having kids to miss Mom and Dad with a whole other kind of hurt.

I can tell he's finishing up and he asks me, "So really, how'd this happen?" I tell him how I slipped, how I grabbed for a rickety handrail, and if he suspects I've fallen off the wagon again, his eyes sure don't show it, and I watched pretty damn close. Not a flicker of doubt anywhere in them. I'm always grateful for Ponyboy.

"Done," he announces and rolls his chair back to stare at the big picture, "Perfection," he breathes.

"It's hard to mess up this face," I tease.

"I was talking about my work," he deadpans and gives me a hand to help me sit back up.

"I'm gonna have to come up with a better story for this scar," I joke, but Pony's looking at me feigning hurt.

"Scar? _Scar?_ Don't you have more faith in me? I pride myself in my exceptional handiwork Soda," he's reaching behind him for another syringe as he keeps on in complete jest but it's probably all true. "I'm the best in the field at leaving a wound without a trace. Like I was never there." He's opening more alcohol pads. "Now roll up your sleeve. You're getting a tetanus shot."

After informing me it's been over ten years since I had my war vaccines and it's better to be safe than sorry, he forces the shot into my shoulder and then starts cleaning up the station and I'm almost glad this accident happened, just so I could have the opportunity to be treated by this good doctor. When I tell him I haven't turned in my forms yet and haven't even finished filling them out, he simply balls the papers up, spits his gum into them and throws them in the waste basket. "How they gonna bill me for the stitches?" I question.

"What stitches?" he shrugs and peels off his gloves. "You're just lucky it's been dead tonight. That never happens on a weekend."

The curtains slide open and he's asking if I'm going to Darry's Sunday when a call comes over the radio. Something about a multi vehicle accident and victims on route. The ER comes to life as people come out of nowhere gearing up for the incoming patients. "Well, so much for being dead tonight. I guess I spoke too soon."

We part ways with a short goodbye and my thanks for helping me tonight, and I try to escape quickly, not wanting to see the aftermath that's already arriving, not able to stand anything about car accidents, but I look back when he calls out "Soda." He's smiling at me, standing in the middle of flashing ambulance lights and sirens and rushed commotion. "Tell Darry I need him to help me fix that shutter. I'll be home tomorrow afternoon." Then I watch him walk into all the tragedies he tries to fix, working hard to keep some other family from having to walk down our road, that painful one, the one that failed to beat us.

 **A/N:** The Outsiders by SE Hinton, Nurse Ratched (Soda calls the admissions nurse this) is a character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, by Ken Kesey

 _Thank you so much for reading this glimpse into the Curtis future. I had fun jumping forward!_


End file.
